Fiction
by wrr0rzxpurrt
Summary: "Right now, I'm writing such a happy story, but it's all still a wish..."  Fiction, B2ST. A/H


_**Fiction by B2ST. .com/watch?v=2Oe_8ytCpqc**_

_**DISCLAIMER: … … Whatever. Just shut up. Stop rubbing it in. *swats lawyers away***_

_~I still can't forget you_

_~I still can't trust everything_

_~Even today I can't send you away like this_

It's day eighty.

Perhaps this qualifies for a celebration of sort, but it's not necessarily the eighty-day anniversary of something good (a wedding, a relationship, a momentous event or accomplishment), something he's proud of.

_It's been eighty days. _

It kinda puts things into perspective.

_~I will rewrite it again; our story will not end_

_~I will bury the fact that reality is seeping into my skin for now_

_~I will rewrite it once again, the start beginning with me and you smiling happily_

_~In case you leave me, the background is a small room without an exit_

"… and speaking of which, today's a _very special day_ to our beloved Mr. Cher down in the science wing!" the voice says. "If you see him, please be sure to wish him a happy birthday. Students, have a –"

"—great afternoon," Artemis finishes under his breath, physically suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. His fingers flex (impatiently) from underneath the table, but he only counts to three, then whispers - just as the teacher does - "Class dismissed."

Artemis stands up quickly (he almost trips in his haste, in fact), messenger bag already packed. He slides out into the aisle and scurries out the door, anticipating his return to the dorms.

_~I kiss you as if there is nothing wrong_

_~I can't leave your sweet presence_

_~There is no such thing as an end for us_

He turns on his computer even as he kicks off his loafers (carelessly), peels off his coat (haphazardly). The worn leather is quickly draped over a chair as he sits down (_Welcome home. Home sweet home; this is home)_, crossing his legs and shifting several times before settling into a position with his chin rested (forlornly) on his hand. Artemis' sharp eyes almost critically follow the loading bar. He hopes (fleetingly, for more pressing matters are at hand) that his roommate has soccer practice today – he always feels uncomfortable when others are around, even if they never looked quite close enough to realize what he was really doing.

_~Like this again (fiction, in fiction)_

_~I can't forget you (fiction, in fiction)_

_~I am writing the story that will never end in my heart_

If Artemis stopped his frantic typing, paused in his jerky movements and stepped back to look at himself and where he was, he might've worried. Worried himself with how he was taking things the way he was, which was the way he shouldn't be taking them.

Here was his release. (_Let go_)

Here was his hope. (_Believe_)

Here lay his dreams. (_Close your eyes_)

_How raw, how emotional, how sentimental._

He didn't even want to think about his one hundred eighty degree turn away from rationality.

_Don't think (though I should)._

_~I will hold on to you (fiction, in fiction)_

_~I won't let you go (fiction, in fiction)_

_~Even today, I live in our story that still hasn't ended in fiction_

And then it turns on.

It's _on._

Game on; game _start. _

_~Right now, there are only happy stories here_

_~The very happy stories of just the two of us (different from reality)_

_~Are written here, it's slowly filling up_

He flexes his fingers once more, satisfied, and clacks out more words. Adds to the ones already burned across the screen in an unearthly, unhealthy glow. His pale face reflects it right back (as if he's a ghost, an echo or shadow or shell or imprint or fossil of his former self).

It's funny how someone who didn't understand English could stare at the screen for hours on end without a clue as to what the words spelled out, but those who spoke it well could tell that his heart had been (fully, completely, totally, horrifically bloodily) poured into the pixels.

_~I run towards you and embrace you_

_~I can't ever let you go from my embrace_

_~There is no such thing as an end for us_

The hours slip past. He pauses only for a sip of water, a cracker. At the very most, he takes a thirty minute break to crank out tonight's homework. His backpack sits at his feet, wide open – he hadn't bothered to zip it up when he finished. Even the books are still strewn across his desk; they're simply pushed to one side as he continues.

_~Like this again (fiction, in fiction)_

_~I can't end it (fiction, in fiction)_

_~I am writing the story that will never end in my heart_

He doesn't know what time it is when his eyes finally (reluctantly) flutter closed.

His roommate wakes him up sometime later, shaking him, telling him that class would start soon.

"Thanks," Artemis says. Angeline _had _taught him manners. His voice is rough, rusty, from lack of use (when had he last spoken?).

"You're welcome," his roommate says. Artemis doesn't even know his name; it was something rather peculiar, in his defense (should he know? Should he care?).

(He probably doesn't like Artemis much anyway, he knows.)

_~I will hold on to you (fiction, in fiction)_

_~I won't let you go (fiction, in fiction, in fiction)_

_~Even today, I live in our story that still hasn't ended in fiction_

Day eighty-one. It's quite the same as day eighty.

"If you want to apply for the debate team, stop by at the office this afternoon. Forms are due tomorrow," the voice says from the speaker. Artemis sits with one leg tightly crossed over the other, chin resting morosely on the palm of his hand (he adopts this position often). He almost pouts.

"… Good luck to the wrestling team! Students, have a –"

"—great afternoon."

He taps his foot on the tiled floor – once, twice. "Class dismissed."

And he leaves.

And he returns home.

And he writes.

Sometime later, his roommate walks in and dumps his duffel bag by his bed. There's shuffling, but mainly silence. Artemis has already clicked onto his backup window, a research website, so it looks like he's been studying.

Finally, the other boy says, "Do you know what the LA homework was?"

"Chapters five through eight in _Where the Red Fern Grows_," Artemis says quickly. "Quiz tomorrow on the reading." _Leave me alone._

He does.

Artemis starts up again like he's never stopped.

_~I will say this again, one more time_

_~Right now, you are next to me_

_~I believe that (but fiction)_

Today is day one hundred and fifty. His fingers move mechanically, robbed of their previous grace. His eyes (one blue, the other hazel; the other _hers_) stare without quite seeing. The beats of his heart sound against his chest as if they are labored (are they sluggish?).

Artemis knows the quality of his work is deteriorating some (lots), crumbling from what it once was (never to return to its former glory). His grammar is becoming more questionable over the days.

His will is snapping.

_~I'm the writer who lost his purpose_

_~The end of this novel; how am I supposed to write it?(My own fiction)_

He fumbles with the keys, then decides to pause.

_One, two, three, four, five. In and out. Such a task. Such a task._

His heart trips mid-beat. It's had enough.

_Goodnight._

_~I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you _

_~I keep writing these three words (everything is fiction)_

_~Setting the worn pen on the tear-stained paper (everything is fiction)_

_~This story can't be happy or sad_

Ira tugs at his collar. It's chafing his skin and the tie feels like a vice around his neck.

"Would you like to say anything as his roommate?" the man before him asks gently. Ira nods. He knows he has to.

He measures out his steps to the podium, feeling as if his nerves will trip up his feet, his words.

"Hello?" The single word rings out in the silent room. Ira fidgets awkwardly for half of a second before nervously tucking some hair behind his ear. When it falls again, he wonders if he should bother fixing it back in place.

"Hello," Ira says again. "My name is Ira. I am – I _was _Artemis' roommate.

"I've never known Artemis too well, actually, even though we shared the same space for several years. He always remained as something of a mysterious character. He would disappear for days, weeks a time and jump right back into the school schedule like nothing had happened, like nothing had changed, and like he'd never gone in the first place. He didn't talk to anyone much; he never initiated conversations. No one understood him. Outside, Artemis was expressionless and emotionless. I've wondered what he's like inside. I've wondered if there was a reason why he was the way he was.

"Then one day, in the middle of the school year, he seemed sad. It wasn't that he was talking less, because he seldom spoke at all, but his face looked pasty and his lips were pulled into a perpetual frown. We didn't know what happened. We didn't think much of it. In the days to come, he maintained this demeanor. He never told us why. We weren't close to him. We didn't know him. It shouldn't hurt that he's gone now.

"It's a great loss for someone to die so young, though. It's a great loss to our community. It's a great loss to his family. It's a great loss that we've never been able to befriend him or approach him. And I know that if we knew he was a dying man, we'd've taken the chance and invited him in, smiled at him in the hallways. Death puts things into perspective. As Steve Jobs once said, we should live like every day is our last, like the world is about to end. What would we have lost, anyway, by being nicer? What _have_ we lost… by never trying?"

Someone sniffles. His job is done.

Ira steps down from the podium, shuffling his way to the back of the crowd once more. This time, he _does _trip mid-step, falls flat on his face. When Ira stands up again, he realizes that no one has laughed, no one has giggled.

It's just silent.

_~Right now, I'm writing such a happy story_

_~But it's all still a wish_

_~I'm happy (fiction, in fiction, in fiction)_

_~We are together (fiction, in fiction, in fiction)_

_~Now is the start (fiction, in fiction, in fiction)_

_~There is no end (fiction, in fiction, in fiction)_


End file.
